


Bartendeing and Stabbing

by SkywalkerCrow



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bleeding Effect, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Homeofsexual feelings about historical figure Leonardo da Vinci, Not A Fix-It, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), There will never be thanos in this also, Unreliable Narrator, as one does in assassins creed, not like a lot but still
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25649464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywalkerCrow/pseuds/SkywalkerCrow
Summary: Desmond Miles ends up in the Avengers dimension, half a year after Civil War, determined to live a normal life. His career as a regular bartender swiftly ends with gaining a stalker and stabbing the Black Widow.
Comments: 66
Kudos: 620





	1. Happenstance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some changes to civil war, like Natasha not going into exile because panther didn’t tell on her otherwise I feel like it would be kinda boring at the compound having like 3 people there imao 
> 
> Overall this is going to be more Assassins Creed focused than Marvel. I watched all the movies but I was never really into them. Thot it would make for a good crossover though

Desmond takes Juno’s offer and with one hand and accepts— there wasn’t even a choice really— his life for the survival of the entire earth, even if it means humanity will be subjected to Juno, the other option was planetary obliteration— he will be dead either way, he’ll never live to see the consequences of his choice. 

Then he’s standing in the moving crowd of people in New York. 

And he’s not dead.

For a few seconds all he could do was wonder if he had hallucinated the entire Juno situation— and that the bleeding effect did end up going too far and driving him into madness. 

Then someone ran into him and gave him a weird look— so he walked forward with the movement of the crowd and wondered what just happened if he wasn’t dead and if he wasn’t crazy. 

After a block of walking aimlessly, overhead he saw a robot fly. No one panics, very few people stop to watch, and those who do don’t make a big deal about it.

The entire city looks different now that he’s looking up, the Asbergo tower is simply gone— replaced instead with a larger one, with the word _Avengers_ written on it. Construction work is nearly everywhere. Skyscrapers are made of a lot more glass than he remembered. 

Wherever he is— it’s not his world, he quickly realized— or of it is he’s been transported to the far future. A part of him knew Juno was lying to him— he had just thought the lying part was about his death being painless, not the fact that he wouldn’t die at all. 

But there isn’t really anything he can do about that. 

He decided to become a bartender again, and desperately tries not to think about the world he left behind to face Juno’s wrath alone. 

Just maybe he can live the normal life he’s always wanted, and maybe that was Minerva’s gift to him. 

* * *

The bar he managed to get a job at doesn’t ask any questions, the interview is just him making drinks and showing off his trick skills— they also test his fluency in other languages. Spanish would have been the ideal second language to know, not Italian and Arabic, his boss told him, but he gets the job anyways.

There’s a regular at the bar who tells him his Arabic is weirdly formal and has an accent he’s never heard before. 

Not formal as in only having learned a language by studying books but formal as in old books and elderly of his home country that never used a tv. Logically, he knew languages naturally change through time but it’s still interesting to know. 

Desmond didn’t think his Arabic was formal— and when he does speak to the guy with formalities just to see what he’d say about that the guy can’t understand what he’s saying at all and lightly laughs at his strangeness. 

When the man after a few trips to the bar asks him where he’s from, he tells him Italy— and he learned Arabic at a young age from his neighbors. 

It would explain why he doesn’t have any type of ID or record. And he’s lived in Italy more than Mastaf. Ezio was the ancestor Desmond lived the life of the most, who’s cities felt more like home than the place he was raised. 

The guy says he _knows a guy who can solve the out of country problem if he’s willing to pay._

For the second time in his life, Desmond Miles gets an ID. This time however, he doesn't get kidnapped soon after. 

It was ironic that an illegally obtained ID was safer than the one he had more legally obtained back in his world. 

Although that could be the fact that the Templar Order had disappeared from this Earth— or maybe they never existed at all. 

* * *

After a week of being here Desmond did research about the past of this world to see how it aligned.

It’s only at this point he realizes it's twenty-seventeen and he’s five years ahead of where he was supposed to be. That explained the new phone designs he’s been seeing everywhere— and the change in fashion sense. 

Cesare Borgia was assassinated in this world, as he was in his— there’s also a television show about his family— Desmond can’t remember if that ever existed where he was from, but he makes a displeasing note that the actors don’t look like the people they’re portraying. After a quick scan of its synopsis, he sees it's all about the family’s inner drama centering on the women, and not exactly about that time in political history. (Even if it was, he doubted he could use it to tell how similar this world was to his).

Leonardo da Vinci existed— and many people consider him to be one of the greatest minds who ever lived. 

Masyaf was hard to find all on its own. There were pictures of a crumbling castle, and that was it. No mention of people who called themselves Assassins or of who lived there a millennia ago. 

George Washington was still the first president, his speeches were exactly the same— Connor’s people exist in a letter of command Washington wrote to burn down their village, and they had moved all the same. 

In twenty-twelve there wasn’t a solar flare. There were _aliens_. 

Desmond stopped his research there. 

Whatever that was, it wasn’t his fight. He had his adventure already, purposely he doesn't read any modern day news reports. Seeing as New York does still exist and the planet hasn’t been conquered— this world doesn't need the Assassins Brotherhood. Or a singular Assassin in this case.

* * *

Desmond doesn't want things— not like regular people want things at the very least. He doesn't care for tv or movies and trending clothes, and the music he cares for is definitely a part of the bleeding effect. Everything he hears in the club he serves at isn’t the most pleasant thing, before the animus he hadn’t enjoyed it either. 

But when he gets an offer for a better bartending job, in a better neighborhood with better pay because of his throwing tricks, he takes it anyways— and tells the guy who got him the fake ID thanks before he leaves. 

The bar he had worked at was a place where gang members hang, and once a week some sort of fight breaks out— ironically it's never because of the gang members. Desmond doesn't want to get wrapped up again in something bigger than himself though— and that place is the kind of bar that would happen in. 

The new bar has significantly more glass, big glass windows, a glass counter— and a far better stock of alcohol. 

He almost exclusively sees white collar people now— but he overhears nearly the same things, the only real difference to him is that these people start physical fights less often, (usually beginning with a sucker punch), and when they do start they’re almost immediately stopped by the bouncers who honestly look more like armed guards. Which is probably why so many things are made of glass.

For some reason people decided they _really_ liked glass architecture in the world. 

All he can think about is how hard it would be to climb because of it, zero surfaces to grip, buildings too far apart and too different of a height to jump from one to the other. He had a similar problem in his world with cities like this. The only places he can climb are the buildings under construction but for absolutely no reason Desmond can fathom, they all have crazy amounts of security. 

So he doesn't climb any buildings even if he’s itching too. 

* * *

At some point in time on his second day of working, someone in blue and red thuds into the wall length windows lining the left side of the room like a confused bird and sticks to it, before crawling up and out of sight. No climbing gear or anything in sight, just one person crawling along a vertical surface with ease as if the laws of physics could be ignored if wanted. 

Whoever it is was curiously colored _blue_ in his eagle vision. Not dull but almost vibrant.

People jumped at the noise, but one called anyone on their phone— police or otherwise. They just go back to doing whatever it was they were doing a few seconds before. 

Whatever _That_ Is _—_ Desmond told himself— is absolutely none of his business. Even if he was colored as a potential ally in his sixth sense. 

And it looked like the patrons of the bar agreed with that statement. 

* * *

“I hear you have some killer tricks.” A newcomer in the bar said to him with a charismatic voice and smile. 

“When I’m in a good mood.” He smiled back.

It was fun throwing glass bottles in the air— especially the more expensive ones. He hasn’t broken one yet but he’s come quite close. Close enough that people enjoy the voyeuristic thrill of the possibility of a missed catch— of things going wrong.

“In a good mood today I hope.”

“I did a few earlier today— I tend not to do the big ones too late at night when people get a bit more than tipsy.”

He began making the man’s order— without any party tricks.

“Come on— You can do one for me though.”

“Sorry man, come back an hour earlier if you can.”

“Do you know who I am?”

It’s a phrase he’s heard a million and one times— just as much in the lower class bar as he hears in the middle class bar. 

“You haven’t been here since I’ve been working here.” He explained— his suit did look expensive, it still had nothing of Italian renaissance nobility. “I’m new, just hired last week.”

He would be a bit concerned about liking the look of the past as much as he does, except there are regular people that fashion themselves over a certain decade of the twentieth century instead of what’s trending now.

“You _seriously_ don’t know who I am?”

The guy looked genuinely confused. He hadn’t even given Desmond his name.

“I’m just a bartender man.”

“Do you even watch the news?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?”

“Tv isn’t really my thing.”

“Do you not use the Internet either?”

”Sometimes I do.”

It was decent for research. He preferred books however, he just liked the feel of them, because of the bleeding effect or because of The Farm he didn’t know. Libraries also had a certain look to them that he favored— but maybe that was because of Altïar. 

“No social media I’m guessing.” He said, tone a bit condescending and rude. 

Desmond really didn’t understand why people thought it was weird he didn’t engage in those types of websites. It was far from the first time he’s practically been scoffed at for it. 

At first it was because those kinds of things left a trail of his existence that the Templars and Assassins could track, even if he wanted one he didn’t get one out of fear. Now he just really doesn’t care. 

“I’m social all day at my job— I don’t think I need to do that on the Internet when I’m off hours.”

“Huh.” The man took a sip of his drink. “Okay.”

Then the guy hit on some random woman after he finished his drink and managed to score one from the look of it.

Nothing really out of the ordinary to him.

* * *

The next day the guy shows up again, but two hours earlier. Desmond has to give him credit for listening to him at least. 

“Am I here on time for your bottle throwing, oh gracious one?” He sarcastically questioned, taking a seat at the bar. 

“Yeah. What would you like to drink?”

“Whatever you think your best drink is.”

His best was a shirley temple with gin— he used to call it a shirley templar as an inside joke with himself. 

The move that most impressed people is the one where he throws one bottle as high as he dares into the air and pours another into the glass before then catching the falling bottle. It doesn't really have a name. People also really like juggling, but he does the first for the audience of one— and the people looking over their shoulder at the two of them. 

There are _a lot_ of people looking over their shoulder at him he realizes, and he slides the drink across the counter. He didn’t think he threw the bottle _that_ high.

“How high can you throw that thing and still catch it?” The man asked. 

“Very.”

He took a sip of the drink and was quiet for a few seconds. 

“How about this— I’ll double whatever you’re being paid here.”

“What?”

“I want you to work for me.”

This wasn’t that different from how he got this job, but he would rather not work for this guy in particular. Besides, he liked this place well enough to want to stay.

“No thanks— but thanks for the offer.”

The man looked severely offended, but he didn’t cause any trouble. 

Afterwords, after he leaves, the woman who was also working that night said to him:

“Holy shit. Dude what the hell?”

“Is… something wrong?”

“Did you seriously just turn down a job offer from Tony Stark?”

“Is that his name?”

The girl laughs.

“Desmond, never stop being you. Ever.”

“Is he actually important?”

“Dude I don’t want to be the one to ruin the magic. I think I’d be too nervous to make him something and not fuck it up somehow.”

There’s definitely something to this.

Desmond has had his adventure already— several literal lifetime's worth. The man was slightly blue in his eagle sight, not golden or red or grey. Potential ally. 

He doesn't look him up. 

Ignorance is bliss— and it looked like his coworker agreed with that. Who would he be to deny their light fun— even if it is at his expense, he doesn't mind it. 

* * *

Desmond is at the very messed up point in his life where standing in a part of the MET dedicated to catholic art of the distant past is more familiar to him than the current point in time he’s living in.

The wing of the museum he’s currently in is old and new— its sandy tan columns and ceilings are clearly designed to recreate the past almost to perfection, but it’s too well lit and smells too clean— there aren’t enough windows either. 

He’s also at the point in his life where looking at a painting by Leonardo da Vinci makes him unreasonably emotional. Desmond is only here because this particular painting from the Vatican is being loaned to the museum for a short period of time— the anniversary of his death, the _five hundredth year anniversary._

It’s unfinished— because _of course_ it is. It’s more Leonardo than the Mona Lisa to him. 

Ezio’s family had owned a few of his paintings in his youth— but he had mostly seen his unfinished work and drawings in his workshop. He watched as his paintings changed and grew and sometimes saw Leonardo’s hand craft them. He heard him criticizing his own work, always believing he could do better if he had just a little more time. 

His fingerprints are all over this painting in a literal sense. Leonardo had blended parts of the canvas without a brush and because of it the pattern of his fingers were embedded into the painting half a millenia later. Standing against the weathering of time. 

How much would the world have changed if on Ezio’s forty-eighth birthday Leonardo accepted the offer into the Brotherhood? He wondered. 

History remembered fifteen paintings, he had looked, desperately trying to find a particular painting that had once hung in the Audiore plaza. Desmond— _Ezio_ saw more than what survived today. 

With a sketchbook he had drawn what he remembered them to look like in his spare hours. Ezio had painted long ago— his mother had made him learn— but his best artworks were always of the faces of those he wanted to kill. And not of any deities or of his own family and friends. Desmond wasn’t so great at drawing, not as good as Ezio had ever been, and even his works paled in comparison to his friend— but he drew them longing to see the original. 

It still could never make up what was lost. 

Through Ezio’s eyes he remembered Leonardo saying: 

_“Have no worries, women provide little distraction.”_ And felt the weight of an arm draped across his shoulders.

 _“Wait, I don’t get it?”_ Ezio had questioned. 

And Leonardo had quickly taken his arm back and nervously rubbed his hands together, looking sharply away. Maybe in another world it could have gone differently. 

A while later Ezio would realize what he had meant, and despite the fact that he didn’t like Salaì he told Leonardo he approved of him. Leonardo didn’t say anything to him about it after that, but Ezio had felt like he lifted a weight from the man. He would never live long enough to see a world where he wouldn’t be hanged, but Ezio made him feel like one day it might be real. 

“So you must… really be into art.”

The voice made him jump. 

It was the guy from the bar who offered him a job— _Tony_. He had completely surprised him. 

His grief must have been visible on his face. 

“Are you stalking me?” He asked. 

“A lot of people are coming to the museum just to see this one painting— or so I've heard. Never really been here to look at the thing myself. Until now.”

He looked over the man again in his eagle sight— he was dull blue. Not a threat, yet. 

“Hope you enjoy it then.” He told him, then made his way out of the exhibit room. 

Maybe he’d see the Egyptian wing. There would be no reminiscing there— he had no ancestors from that part of the world— he experienced none of that time and place through their eyes. 

“You know— I wasn’t joking about that job.” Tony called out to him in a volume probably inappropriate for a museum, trailing after him before stepping up to meet his stride. 

Perhaps he had stalked him here then. He was blue likely because he held no ill intentions and in his own eyes wanted to help— still a huge invasion of privacy. And Desmond wasn’t a fan of being followed or of anyone knowing where he was.

“I like the place I’m at now.”

“Sure, but you don’t even know what _my_ place is.”

Desmond stopped walking. 

People were staring at them, he realized— or not at him but at Tony. 

“Why do you want me to work for you so bad?”

“I have trouble keeping a bartender I like on payroll.”

Desmond could take a few guesses as to why. 

“...Maybe that’s for a reason.” He stated, and turned sharply on his heel. 

“I know your name is Desmond Miles— I know you're not legally here from Italy.”

He turned back towards the man.

“Seriously? Blackmail?”

“Not blackmail, just the idea that I can make the trail of that go away. At any given point in time.”

 _How the hell did he even have a trail_ was what he was wondering. Certainly it wasn’t because Desmond Miles existed in this weird world and he had dug that up— the information he had was things he made up for himself. He wasn’t actually from Italy no matter how much it felt like that at times. 

“How did you even learn all that?”

“Come on— I’m Tony Stark— billionaire genius.”

Desmond just stared at him, then glanced at the people staring at them. It was because Tony Stark was famous he was only now realizing. He probably should have put that together after his coworker knew who he was. 

He was pretty sure being rich didn’t mean everyone knew exactly who you were however. Desmond couldn’t name a single person with a lot of money from his world that wasn’t Templar related. 

“That… doesn’t mean anything to me.”

It would be about as meaningless as telling him Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad was Desmond’s direct ancestor. 

A few people were less than discreetly getting closer to them. He hoped someone would be brave enough to interrupt so he could escape. Using his Assassin skills to run from an average guy who couldn't take a hint was probably up there on the top ten Desmond coward moves list— but if he’s some kind of famous businessman he knows enough that they do not give up easily. Non-confrontation is often the best route in the twenty-first century. 

“How about a trial run then? Come over and see the place— it’s actually _The_ Compound you’d be working at.” Heavy emphasis on ‘the.’ 

That sounded more foreboding to Desmond than Tony probably intended. But he wasn’t able to give a refusal because of an interruption. 

“Are you Iron Man?” Someone young stepped up and asked. 

“I’m just here to see the museum today— I’ll give you an autograph if you keep it on the down low.”

Then Desmond backed his way into the sparse crowd and left the museum, famous businessman nowhere in sight. 

* * *

“Update on Desmond Miles.” Friday stated.

“Hit me with it.”

For a bartender he was slippery— almost to the degree of Black Widow. After absconding in the museum while Tony was distracted, he managed to avoid being seen on facial recognition by any of the street cameras. One moment he was there then some kid said hello and he was gone before the second sentence came out of his mouth. 

It seems he has been accidentally taken down a rabbit hole. 

Who knew trying to hire someone could be so hard?

“He has acquired a new identification, and job.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I am not.”

He was almost impressed. That certainly was fast for a random civilian. 

Unless of course, he _wasn’t._

“Where’s he working now?” 

After all, who on this planet could seriously not know who Tony Stark— Iron Man— was. Perhaps there was a little more going on than illegally crossing borders. It would explain his ease of obtaining fake identification, and why he declined the job. 

* * *

As it turns out, Tony Stark was the robot in the sky, not a famous businessman. 

That certainly explained the fame a lot better. 

Desmond Miles gets a new job, under a different name, at a bar in a less than pretty neighborhood. He also goes to his old bar and finds that guy who gave him the first ID and pays him double to forge him a second one in two days. Perhaps a bit of an overreaction, but he’s the paranoid type and absolutely refuses to get involved in nonsense again. 

It was just his luck to be minding his own business and somehow manage to attract a flying robot man of all things. 

At least it wasn’t Templars. 

“You got a new job?” He heard Stark ask before he saw him. 

He probably should have known just moving jobs wouldn’t have worked if he had tracked him to a museum and exactly where he was in it. And if he had figured out the first identification was fake. 

“Can I take your order?” Desmond asked, ignoring the implications of his question. 

_“And_ a new identity?”

Stark industries, this world’s Abstergo it seamed. He was just about as persistent, even if he hadn’t kidnaped him yet. Although imagining the cooperate faces of the Templar’s fighting aliens wasn’t something he could imagine. 

“I looked you up on the Internet.” Desmond told him. 

Stark looked to deliberate that for a moment. 

“Usually only bad people run from me.”

It would be insanely easy to strike his hand across the bar counter and kill him— the Connor in him says. The part of him that hates men like this. He’s _not_ here to be an Assassin though, he’s here because Juno or Minerva gave him a second chance to live for saving the world he was from. 

_Do not stain your hands with the blood of the innocent._ Desmond told himself. 

He was going to have a normal life even if he had to run for it. 

“I’m not here legally. And you tried to blackmail me with that. So… if that’s what you mean by bad, then yes

“Alright. I’ll just leave you to your… really nice bar.” He said, sarcastically. It was a downgrade from where he had just been. “You know where to find me if you ever change your mind.”

Desmond didn’t change his mind, obviously. 

* * *

“Is he still mad about that bartender?” Natasha asked.

Rhodey let out an airy laugh and smiled. 

“Seems so.” 

“Friday, where does the bartender Stark complains about work?”

“Desmond Miles currently works at a bar located on twenty second street, on the second floor above a small restaurant.” The AI answered. 

“Thank you Friday.”

Rhodes gave her a tired look— one she knew ment _you better not be doing what I think you're doing._

“I want to see the man making Stark upset.”

“I hope I don’t have to remind you not to stalk civilians.” He warned. “Tony’s just taking his frustration on other things by talking about this guy. It’s nice for him to have something on his mind other than you know who.”

Natasha thought her spying was at least more honorable than Friday's digging into his almost non-existent past— probably also more legal. Although she knew she wasn’t supposed to do that kind of stuff anymore for fun.

“I’m just going to buy a drink. Make conversation.”

* * *

Desmond Miles was a decent bartender, Natasha decided while watching him from a table. 

He was friendly to everyone, and listened to people complain about their jobs or their families while looking completely neutral at whatever problem they were talking about. 

From what Natasha knew, he somehow genuinely had no idea who Tony Stark was and declined a job offer, and Stark had been absolutely flabbergasted so much so he openly complained to the remaining Avengers about it— to Rhodey’s entertainment— then he had asked Friday to find out everything about the man and was further flabbergasted by the seemingly non-existence he left behind. 

Then this Desmond Miles had also declined Stark’s offer to make him a legal citizen. 

Natasha knew there was likely a lot more to what happened. Stark _forgetting_ details was a very likely thing. 

She doesn't exactly have many missions to do now however. And she believed Secretary Ross suspected she helped members of the rouge avengers escape. She did, in fact, help them escape— but Ross had no proof of it. Because of it she suspected he’s holding her off from crossing borders. So checking out some guy who’s gotten Stark’s fancy twisted sounded just about as good as anything else. 

A few times while seated she noted him looking directly at her with more than a male gaze type of nervousness— it was possible he had somehow seen through her disguise, although it was unlikely given the fact that he didn't know who Tony Stark was. Unless of course, he had been lying about that fact. But _why_ would he have lied and then not taken advantage of Stark’s interest if he was running with a mob or terrorist group, or supervillain— and if he had not lied, how did he see past her disguise and know she was here for him?

It was possible he knew about the Black Widow but not Tony Stark, although _very_ unlikely. There still wasn’t any reason for him to suspect she was after him in particular, unless he had something someone such as Black Widow would be after. 

Suddenly she sees how some bartender drove him up a figurative wall in the matter of a week. He was contradictory. So much so that she couldn’t get a good read on him. 

Disturbing at his workplace wouldn’t be the best move, so she decided to wait until he left to start a conversation. 

Natasha left the bar, and waited. 

* * *

Someone had just stepped into the alleyway behind Desmond and it caused him to freeze— hoping whoever it was didn’t have a gun. Modern guns were far too accurate for his tastes. And they would be too far apart for him to grab and disarm them.

He had a bad feeling the woman who had been sitting alone at the bar was going to be the person behind him. 

Then he turned around.

Standing in front of him _was_ the woman from the bar. 

“You’re the guy Stark is freaking out about.” She said, unlike Stark however, she was red. 

_Oh god._ Desmond thought. _Not this again._

“Are you here to kidnap me?”

She took a step forward, her gait was wide and arms bent— she knows how to fight. 

And Desmond in response scaled up the side of a building, jumped across to the next one, dropped down and sharply took a left into the semi-crowded street. 

She was definitely going to try to kidnap him, Desmond decided. 

He has his hidden blade, but if one of Stark’s people _disappeared_ on a mission to get him he’s pretty sure he’d be doing time for murder faster than a sneeze. 

* * *

“What do you mean he just disappeared?” Tony questioned.

“He climbed up the side of a building.” Natasha answered.

“Like using a fire escape ladder?”

“No. Using the window ledges. Free hand, no gear.”

“I _knew_ there was something about that guy.” Tony stated. “Never go out like that again also, we don’t need any _incidents_.”

Not when Natasha had openly stated she could see Roger’s side of things. One mistake and she might be considered too unpredictable.

“Friday are there any unaccounted enhanced that match his profile?”

“One potential. Twenty three percent likelihood.”

“Give it to me.”

“Daredevil is reported to have similar skills.”

“Does Daredevil have that scar across the lips?”

“Unknown. Witness description varies heavily.”

Stark let out a deep breath. 

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was a hard one to catch, so much so that Iron-Man decided to ignore him instead of trying to make him agree to the Accords. Witnesses half the time purposely gave wrong descriptions of the guy— and cameras rarely worked there if the citizens didn’t destroy them within a week. He never really caused too much property damage himself though, and _never_ left one particular part of the city, so it didn’t really matter to him that he didn’t sign. 

His death toll was zero after all.

It probably wasn’t him anyways. Whoever the Devil was, was absolutely living and working in that part of the city, Desmond did not. Desmond also seemingly popped into existence a few weeks back, and the Devil had been active so much longer than that. 

“Cross Daredevil off that list.” He told Friday. 

“So sure it isn’t him?” Natasha asked.

“I don’t think our guy is a vigilante.” Tony stated. “Things don’t really work out right— I’m pretty sure he genuinely didn’t know who I was until he went out of his way to look it up.”

Natasha got a _look_ on her face then. It wasn’t much but it was a lot for her— a slight tilt to the head and opening of her jaw while still keeping her lips closed. 

“You have an idea?”

“No.”

Tony was calling bullshit on that. 

“Don’t go after him again. That’s an order. Not a request.”

“Understood.”

He hoped she did. 

* * *

Desmond, when he returned home looked up who that woman could possibly be— and got _instant_ results.

Black Widow, part of the Avengers— same team as Tony Stark. The entirety of her past is really available as some sort of transparency government thing and she’s done some _nasty_ stuff in the past. Fully pardoned of all it. 

He was glad the place he lived at wasn’t in the business of taking IDs of its residents. 

* * *

The next day, he sees her again after work.

Desmond probably should have expected this— he should have moved states and not jobs when he realized who Tony Stark was— he should have _taken care of her_ and not ran away. 

This wasn’t the fifteenth century, when escaping from a guard’s sight meant you were as good as invisible and in the clear.

“Where did you train?” She asked him.

“Why can’t I just make drinks. Why does there always have to be people like you out there who have to mess up my life?”

“Somewhere far away from here I’d assume— since you were very young as well. Climbing buildings is a task that would take specific muscle training— not the kind you do when you want to be stronger.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“Not Russia. I’d know if you trained there. And you don’t look Asian, that rules out a lot of places. Could be from the Middle East.”

“Are you... racially profiling me?”

“Where did you train? I assume you know about me.” She paused. “I’d be willing to help someone with a similar past. Stark would too. You could get a full pardon under the New Avengers, if you signed the accords.”

“I’m a bartender.”

Then she sprints at him— and he in a blink of an eye changed stance to take on an oncoming target— a fight begins. It’s fast and _devastatingly_ brutal. 

She doesn’t have any firearm on her, but she does have dual stun batons and she comes at him hard. 

It looked like New York was not the place for him. 

Maybe he would try Boston— or Italy if he could somehow find his way across the sea. He’d probably have twenty four hours to scram before they noticed their agent was dead.

He would have one change to get her with his blade before he lost the advantage of surprise. There’s absolutely no way he’s ending up in Abstergo two-point-o.

Desmond made a purposefully poor kick on her waist, she quickly brought her batons down on his exposed leg— her right side was now open to him— and he activated his hidden blade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that painting was actually at the Met for his 500 death anniversary, I wish I could have seen it
> 
> This was a part of a series of assassin’s creed short oneshot crossovers I was working on then it was suddenly 10 K words and then I was like shit okay


	2. New Boston, New Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond bails out of New York, and makes some friends. Stark tries to keep his friends alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this got like 30 kudos and 15 subs in a day. So here’s the next chapter I had just been sitting on and planned to post two weeks later

“Sir.” Friday said overhead. “Natasha has activated her distress signal.” 

_That_ was _not_ a good sign. Tony thought. 

“On it— tell Rhodes, he’s coming with me. Vision is on medical standby. _Do not_ alert anyone about this until we have full details.”

“Relaying instructions now sir.”

The location was in New York— it’s not far from the compound and will take only a five minute flight, Natasha hasn’t ventured far, complying with the Accords. Somehow she still managed to find trouble— or trouble had managed to find her. 

Over the comms unit, Vision asked him:

“Do you think it could be _them?”_

Referring to the Captain and his team of runaways— there weren’t many people out there that could make Black Widow call for backup. He always said their names indirectly, Stark hated to admit it, but the mention of them could be the final straw on his bad days. It still made him feel like a child whenever they did that though, even if he understood why.

“For their own sake I hope not. We won’t be playing easy with them this time. This is American soil.” 

“For _my_ sake I hope it’s not them.” Rhodes said. “Sorry Tony but you know I won’t be able to fight all of them.”

Not since his permanent paralysis injury at least. With Stark technology he could not only walk but fly using the Iron Patriot armor— he still wasn’t the fighter he was before the injury. And Stark knew that weighed heavy on him, it's why he tried so hard to have him included in everything he could do before. 

Wanda in particular would be nearly impossible for him to fight.

“We’ll see when we get there.” Iron Man would be strong enough to defeat them alone if he put his mind to it. And he was going to put his mind to it. Rhodey wouldn’t be ever hurt by them again. “Vision, if it is them contact Ross immediately and inform him of the situation. If it isn’t, don’t tell him.”

He had a feeling Natasha went against his words and visited his bartender once more and this wasn’t about the rouge avengers at all. It was wholly unlikely any of the rouge members ventured onto American soil for any reason— and if It wasn’t _them,_ it wasn’t a situation Ross needed to know about. 

* * *

When they arrived Natasha was alone and bleeding in an alleyway between two old brick buildings. The way she had both hands pressed into her upper side suggested it was bad. Bad enough that she wasn’t standing either. 

It’s the worst Tony has ever seen her look. 

“Your bartender isn’t a bartender.” She wheezed in a nearly breathless sound the moment they touched ground.

“I told you not to follow him— or fight him.” Stark told her.

Rhodes picked her up, gently taking her in his arms. 

“Finish the conversation after she gets to Vision.” He stated. 

Then he took off for the sky.

Tony remained in the alleyway. 

“Friday,” he said into his communicator, “did you pick up anything new on Desmond Miles.”

“No, Sir. I have not received any new information since he obtained a second false identity.”

All he wanted was a goddamn competent bartender for The Compound. He _knew_ his tricks were too good for the place he was in— maybe even too good for a bartender— but he still went after him. Now Natasha was wounded checking something out because he couldn’t find enough on the guy. 

“The moment he shows up on facial recognition I want to know. I don’t care what I’m doing at the time or who I’m with.”

“Understood, Sir.”

The neighborhood he’s in has a track record of trading background checks for consistent rent in advance. No computers or security cameras in the buildings, all paper records— nothing hackable. It’s a dead end— even though Miles’s residence might be one of the complexes on either side of him. He can’t just go barging in on them and making a mess.

It’s frustrating in a way he was all too familiar with. 

Tony Stark took off back to the compound.

* * *

Desmond Miles doesn’t make it out of America in twenty four hours, he makes it to Boston— and stays. Even though it probably wasn’t a good idea. 

He doesn't know why he expected it to be entirely familiar— it isn’t. Logically he knew the city would have glass skyscrapers and painted lines in the road, buildings have been removed and replaced, forest and flower fields have been cleared— but he’s still disappointed at the sight. 

However there are definitely far more buildings he can reasonably climb here, and there’s far less security cameras than there was in New York City. 

The next day passes, and for the first time since arriving here he turns on the news and listens for hours. 

Desmond Miles isn’t a wanted man, somehow. 

* * *

Natasha has a deep stab wound, it caused tension pneumothorax— a collapsed lung— and she would have been dead within thirty minutes if she didn’t have her distress beacon and the Accords mandated tracker on her. 

Tony Stark was stressed out of his mind. 

The Black Widow almost died today from a single wound— she fought aliens and robots but a single guy, a single mistake is what almost put her down for good. Whoever Desmond Miles really is would pay, _dearly_ for what he’s done. But Tony can’t go at him hard now. He needed more information— he needed to decide if he wanted the guy to feel safe enough to make mistakes and catch him, or if he wanted to bring down every power in this country on his head and leave no options. 

But the first thing Natasha said to him after waking from Vision's surgery was:

“I attacked first.”

And that changed everything. 

Then suddenly all the anger Tony had for the bartender turned— it wasn’t _gone_ , but it moved directions.

He hadn’t targeted her specifically to try and kill her. This wasn’t a plot against the Avengers. 

“Why. Just why the hell would you do that. I told you to leave him alone.”

Tony had known Natasha was getting stir crazy, only going out on certain often low stake missions to fill certain parameters— but he didn’t think she would disobey him. He didn’t think she would make a move as stupid as this one. 

She technically has broken the accords because of this. While allowed to defend herself, Black Widow was not authorized to attack or spy on anyone without explicit permission first. He wouldn’t tell however, the Avengers were broken enough already— and Tony can’t help but feel one mistake shouldn’t mean she should be detained without trial. 

After all, the only reason why she went after him was because Tony was going after him and talking about it.

That did unfortunately mean he couldn’t go after the bartender, or if he did he would have to lie about what happened if he was to be taken in— but Natasha was always one to tell the truth when it came down to fights.

“Wanted to know where he trained to climb like that. Thought sparing might give me a better clue. He didn’t appear armed.”

“Was it luck?” Tony asked. 

She looked down for a moment, pressing her lips tight together. 

“I don’t know.”

* * *

It’s kind of funny how Desmond talked to George Washington in Connor’s lifetime— he remembered words the first president said that no one knew about. It was even funnier that during his speech of being sworn in as command in chief Connor was talking in the back of the room— almost started a fight— and didn’t hear the end of Washington’s speech because he wasn’t paying attention. It was less funny how much he hated the guy on a deeply personal level. Even if everyone did know and believed he experienced the past lifetimes of his ancestors, he wouldn’t tell them what Washington said out of spite. 

There were fragments of Ezio’s life left behind— in Leonardo, in the design of the museum’s walls, in old letters written in a dialect of Italian only he understood. There weren’t any of Connor. Nothing here said, _this is home— you long for this,_ even though some streets and buildings were so familiar he could climb them blindfolded. 

Connor’s real home burned long ago. 

Boston is empty in a way the museum wasn’t. 

* * *

“Now what?” Rhodey asked Tony. “If anyone realizes Widow’s down there’s going to be some questions. And she’s going down for a while. Six weeks before she can go out in the field again. Three before she can leave the infirmary.”

“Then no one will know.” Stark decided.

The Avengers feel empty now, and Tony is doing his best to keep what’s here together. That meant protecting Natasha from her own mistakes.

Thor is on Asgard. He was always so lighthearted about the team's squabbles and yet unyielding when it came down to the actual fight— what was actually important, even when the fight was his brother he fought with every inch of himself. Being adopted probably made it easier, Tony figured. 

The air was tenser without him to break it and dispel their arguments with a few words and a jovial laugh.

When and _if_ Thor ever came back to earth, Tony had no idea if he would even sign the accords. It was possible he’d see how fractured the team was now and not be interested, or he would leave back for Asgard as soon as he realized he couldn’t do whatever he wanted on this planet anymore. He was only ever on the team to begin with because the enemy that brought them together happened to be Loki. He might not even care to come back to earth now that he was taken care of. 

They still don’t know where Hulk was. The United Nations and Ross were endlessly breathing down their necks because of it, but he couldn’t blame them for that. The destruction the Hulk was capable of could level a city— and he was entirely unpredictable in _when_ and _why_ he would do so. 

Bruce Banner was his trusted friend, and he was pretty sure he’d sign— but then again he had always thought Rogers would have signed as well. Rogers ironically didn’t even trust his home country apparently. So much for being Captain America. 

“What about our bartender then?” Rhodey questioned. “Was it an accident or… did he just take down the woman who’s regarded as the world’s best spy and assassin?”

That was the billion dollar question of the hour. Stark was beginning to think Desmond Miles wasn’t his real name at all. The ID had been forged after all— and he was quick to procure a second. 

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

 _“Tony.”_ Rhodey warned. “Natasha will live. Don’t go on a revenge trip for some random guy _she_ went after. Remember that she chased after him, not the other way around.”

He knew that obviously— Widow had told him that first and foremost. 

“God, don’t treat me like I’m a fucking child.”

“I’m not.” 

“Then lay off.”

“Fine.” Rhodey put his hand up for a moment in a sign of surrender. “I’ll be back looking into leads of the Captain and his crew.”

And Tony would be here— thinking of ways to speed up the process of healing a punctured lung and looking at every possible weapon that could have been used to cause it and where it could have come from. 

He also would be preventing Chitauri technology from falling into the wrong hands and preventing the usual disasters in America and whatever out of country mission he’s assigned and watching over Peter Parker along with the usual Stark industries business.

Just another thing to add to his plate. 

* * *

There is a part of Boston that’s older— it still has its brick buildings all attached to one another— some streets are far too small for cars and haven’t been paved side the day they were first made— the old north church still stands strong and is used to this day. 

Desmond Miles found himself climbing to the top of the old part of the city, and noted the roof tiles have been replaced with new ones, as have the shutters. Shutters are some type of hybrid wood now, too light and unsecured to be used for climbing and purely existing for design. 

People watching from the rooftops is also something Desmond found himself enjoying— a byproduct of Connor’s days spent watching forgen people pass by— or Ezio sneaking into the church and listening into the gossip— or if it's something he likes to do simply because he likes it— Desmond doesn’t know. 

There’s more than a few people that pass by arguing about directions— there’s a few people holding their phones out and talking to themselves— a historical tour group passes by once every three hours and he’s honestly impressed by the accuracy of the guide’s historical outfit— and there's a police officer on horseback to compensate for the small roads where cars can’t go but people use to travel often. 

When he first heard the clobber of hooves on the stone ground he had been frightened that he might be seeing or hearing things that aren’t there— but the man on the horse is from the modern day— wearing a modern police uniform— the bleeding effect isn’t turning him insane. 

Scaling up the sides of the Old North Church is something he saves for the dark of night. People tend to look up more in the modern era because of the tall buildings and planes and the semi- darkness of the city at night would hopefully mean that no one sees him.

After scaling it the very top— Boston is way better than New York, he decides. 

His eagle sight burns the layout of the city into his mind, and there’s a few key locations. There’s also splashes of red and blue amongst the grey. 

Tomorrow, he thinks he’ll check a few of them out. 

* * *

When Desmond falls asleep on the rooftop he dreams that he's on a ship in the middle of a storm and someone’s firing at them— he simply knows his name is Edward Kenway and that he’s pirating for himself and his woman to live a life out of extreme poverty. 

Then there’s a man with a hidden blade who kills their captain and the ship explodes.

In a blur he swims to an island and finds the mystery’s man is greatly injured, then kills him, steals his clothes and reads his letters— and he takes his place at Havana after gaining the trust of a merchant. Somehow this ends with him becoming a Templar purely for the money and he doesn’t even realize it. 

When Desmond wakes up— it’s to a sun he feels is too cold and wind that doesn’t feel strong enough. He had a bad feeling it wasn’t an ordinary dream. Dreams aren’t as lucid as what he saw. Dreams don’t smell like salt and feel like copper blood running down the back of your throat and they don’t leave nostalgic or incorrect feelings about the world when you wake up. 

Getting lost in dreams sometimes makes you think where am I— not _who am I?_

Then he remembered something vitally important. 

Connor’s grandfather was named Edward Kenway. 

* * *

“Romanoff.” Stark stated. “I realize you’re not in the best shape to talk— but I need to know anything you learned about this guy.”

“I thought he might be like me.” She began. “Stolen and trained since childhood, cut away from the world to kill on someone else’s orders.”

“That theory would explain how he came into existence out of nowhere. And the scar.” He elaborated on. 

It however wouldn’t explain why he didn’t know who Tony Stark was. He was pretty sure knowing who superheroes were would be at the top of the list of learning who to avoid. He was ninety percent sure the man genuinely didn’t know his identity and wasn’t pretending not to know him. If he had been pretending for some unknown reason then why would he have bothered to say he looked up who he was?

Stark wasn’t too dead set on this particular idea.

“I didn’t see what hit me.”

“I’m working on that.” Tony said, then quickly moved on. “We haven’t found him on any security cameras yet. He hasn’t shown up for work or made another identification that we know of. If he had a residence, Friday still can’t find it. Still think it might be luck?”

“I think he knows how to kill and isn’t afraid to. But he wasn’t looking to kill me. If anyone had tried to fight him, he would have tried to kill them too. I’d like to talk to him again.”

“So, what you’re saying is you think we’re dealing with an experienced killer— someone who’s also been trained like you in stealth, and would therefore be almost impossible to track down?”

Aliens were always a possibility. Asguardians looked pretty similar to humans, maybe he was one of them— or maybe he was from somewhere else that happened to have a nearly identical human look alike. 

“I think getting a hold of this bartender is going to be harder than you originally thought.”

“You know, I’m not really sure if I want a bartender for the Compound anymore.”

* * *

The first place Desmond checks out is lodged in the back room of a diner and belongs to a group of three small-time hackers, who promptly look scared shitless that a random dude just broke into their secret hideout. 

One of them has a gun— but he holds it like he never used it before and points it too close, close enough to almost touch his chest. Desmond swiftly yanks it from his grasp and removes the magazine. 

Desmond realizes none of them are going to say anything after a few seconds, so he says something first. 

“You all… have something you need done. But you need help to do it.” He told them. 

Immediately one of them talks— it’s the girl, who’s ends of her hair have been dyed blue. 

“Are you a meta?” She asked. 

“I don’t know what that is.” 

“Superpowers.”

He absolutely refused to call eagle sight a superpower. It was a rare genetic trait passed down for a thousand years and highly sought after by the Assassins and Templars alike. 

“No.” 

“How’d you know we needed help then?”

“I simply know when people need my help.”

“Okay man— uh. There’s this company in the city— it’s big shot stole a design from a friend and is selling it off as his own— we have the software to fuck his system up but we need physical access into the servers to do that.” One of the guy’s explained. “And we can’t do that.”

“Then I’ll get you physical access.”

The three all look at eachother.

“Dude are you sure—“

“—We’re fucked either way.” The girl interrupted— then she handed him a black flash drive and told him the building name. The flash drive had a strange make he hadn’t seen before, smaller and speaker than the ones he’s used to seeing. “Plug this into their server room. Doesn't matter which one. It’ll automatically download a backdoor for us.”

Sounded simple enough. Accounting for modern day corporate security it would probably take a few hours to get in and out. That is, if the security was the same as where he was from. Certainly Boston looked less heavily fortified than New York but that was probably because of the whole alien invasion thing Desmond refused to think for more than thirty second of at a time. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then he headed out, before he left he heard the beginning of a conversation. 

“Dude. Is this guy seriously going to break into the—“ Before the door shut cutting off their voices. 

He’d figure out how to get in. He got into the Abstergo tower after all, he’d just have to not kill anyone along the way. 

* * *

When Desmond falls asleep that night after breaking into the corporate building, he dreams about— _he_ _synchronizes_ with Edward— he falls out with the Templar’s in his greed and almost immediately makes a new friend— then a dozen more and he takes off into the sea in enemy territory with a stolen ship and a crew of former prisoners with nothing else but a dream for glory and fame and the clothes on his back. 

One of the first things they all do when they realize that all just escaped and are free men— some free for the first time in their lives— is _sing._

The best way to make friends he realizes, is to help a stranger in need. 

* * *

The blade had gone four and a half inches into Natasha. 

A dagger was the closest weapon that could have done that kind of damage, with that kind of straight edge and depth, but Widow hadn’t seen any weapons on him— she hadn’t seen him reach for anything either. And large daggers often had to have large handles just to hold them without injuring yourself— they weren’t something that was easy to hide, especially not from the Black Widow’s sight. 

They also were very illegal, and thus made tracking down more difficult than if they weren’t. 

Stark couldn’t even say with even fifty percent certainty that was the type of weapon he was looking for, even if it was easy to find who was in possession of that type of knife it likely wouldn’t lead anywhere. 

It was another dead end. 

* * *

“You actually fucking did it.” The girl said. “When I woke up this morning I saw our backdoor.”

“You got the designs back?” Desmond asked. 

He wasn’t too big on the technology aspect of things, he left that to Leonardo— _to Shawn and Rebecca,_ he corrected. 

“Yeah— we didn’t _just_ do that— we torched their servers big time after ripping a few thousands from their accounts.” She explained. 

“Why? Why are you helping us man?” One of the boys asked. 

A part of him thought of La Volpe and of courtesans— Of alliances with other groups of people and how they helped his ancestors along the way. Desmond needed friends. Shawn and Rebecca aren’t here, wherever here is. The Assassins didn’t exist alone, although they never compromised their order with outsiders. 

“I think I needed to make friends with you. That’s all.”

“Dude. Definitely a meta.” 

“I’ll leave you to your thing then.”

“Wait—“ she threw something at him, and he caught it reflectively. “Burner phone.”

It was at this point in time Desmond realized he never really completed a mission himself. It’s always been through the eyes of his ancestors. 

* * *

Desmond ends up going to seemingly random locations, a library, an abandoned building, a dock of big boats, and in each place he finds something new. 

A book about superheroes, a homeless community, an old ship preserved through time. 

For now he stays out of sight, no job or apartment— rooftops to avoid cameras— he’s honestly surprised to have not been found. He feels sixteen again over paranoid about everything and waiting to be attacked. 

* * *

The second shining gold person he speaks to is a lone woman. 

As it turns out, courtesans are illegal now.

Either they weren’t illegal in his world— because he certainly had seen them a lot in Bad Weather— or the subject just never came up and most civilians didn’t really care that it was illegal. 

They’re also not called courtesans and he _knew that_ but he still can’t stop calling them that in his head. 

They also don’t run themselves. Which is why there’s so much red splattered amongst the gold outside of the city. 

The woman he talks to isn’t a part of the group but she knows girls who are and where they are now— they used hang out together before this new group came into the city and enacted their order on the girls— kidnapping the homeless and sending their men out to round up working women on the street. 

What acts as their business is located in a fairly decent neighborhood, fenced in and all spread out with big yards. Not the kind of place the law ever comes knocking just to knock. 

So many of them have guns— with drastically better aim than what he’s used too. But they can’t shoot what they never see coming. 

He doesn't _want_ to leave a big mess but word tends to travel fast in the twenty-first century, and eventually bodies will be found. Desmond will just have to hope no one connects it to him. 

* * *

For the third time he dreams of being someone else. Edward wanted fame and glory, and that pushed Adéwalé, his best friend and first mate, away. 

Adéwalé fought for ideals, for freedom— not for greed or fame, but despite that he stood by Edwards side until he couldn’t anymore.

When Desmond wakes up it’s not a surprise for him to realize Adéwalé became an Assassin. That ultimately despite his love for his friend he’d choose to save the rest of his crew and leave Edward behind. He cannot be mad at him, not by any means for leaving Edward for dead, ideals for the Assassins are more important than friends— even if they often go hand in hand. And Adéwalé was born to be more than a former slave, and second mate to an attention seeking man. 

* * *

Tony Stark wants a cohesive team— he wants people he can trust. After everyone who's abandoned him that feels hard to come by.

More often than he would like to admit he thinks about Rogers and that letter. The Avengers were made in a time of desperation and torn apart in a time that was supposed to be peace. Friendships were killed over Roger's ideals, people were hurt, Rhodey was _paralyzed._

Natasha— despite being stabbed— thinks this Desmond should be given another chance. She’s heavily implied to him a few times he should be brought in, just not as a prisoner. Just like she tried to mitigate the Accords she appears to be trying to see Desmond's side of things despite his literal deadly nature.

Stark hasn’t told her yet that he has no power to imprison him because she made the first move against him. They could always lie, but Widow isn’t one to lie about a battle even if she tends to lie about everything else. Some strange form of honor among killers.

By no means would he ever call her emotional, but she seems to have this idea in her head that he comes from the same— if not a very similar background as her and therefore deserves a second or third or fourth chance. 

Stark certainly doesn’t think he can give him that chance but he can pretend to. 

He can make friends. He can be _friendly._ Even to someone who literally stabbed a friend. It isn’t as if he never worked with backstabbers before. 

Kill them with kindness— keep your friends close enemies closer— and all that. 


	3. Truths and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stark finally finds Desmond. Desmond digs his own grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we’re at the point where I haven’t written anything else ahead of this… and i'll be real with you i'm one of those no update for a year type of guys

Desmond Miles lives Edward Kenway’s lifetime in his dreams.

He all but falls in love with a boat— the reason he became a pirate is lost in blood, but he stays on the sea anyways— and eventually he has to say goodbye.

As the Jackdaw sails away the crew sings one last song to him, it’s about a man who doesn't want to leave his ship but why he must. 

Desmond learns everything comes to an end, eventually.

* * *

“Sir.” Friday said, interrupting Tony Stark’s lab work. “A partial match for Desmond Miles was found in Boston near the harbor.”

Immediately he put down his tools.

It’s been _weeks._

“Show me.”

The two dimensional image of the man holographically appeared before him. 

The quality and angle of the picture gave room for doubt, but Miles for whatever reason was almost always wearing that hoodie, white and red like he was one of those obsessive people in documentaries who’s every possession was a certain object. There’s also very few individuals who have a scar across their lips, although the poor quality of the image means it could be mistaken for dirt or a different shaped scar that happened to be in a similar place. 

Computer error says there’s a twenty percent chance it’s not him, human judgment told Stark there was no doubt. 

“Friday, I’m suiting up. Tell the other Avengers we might be getting a visitor later.”

* * *

Desmond was walking along the empty harbor, letting the salty scent of the sea remind him of yet another ancestor and looking at the old boat that sat in the sea reminded him of less than noble ship raiding— when he heard a high pitched engine in the sky and saw a flash of red. Immediately he headed for cover. Paranoia activating an automatic flight response. 

It’s Iron Man. 

Or Tony Stark in the robot he supposed. It was just his luck to end up pissing off the worst group of people possible on the planet. He had thought he was in the clear when there was no sign or them or a warrant for his arrest after twenty four hours, but he must have messed up somewhere. 

There’s a part of him that hoped Stark just happened to be passing by and isn’t looking for him specifically— but that hope was soon crushed when Stark landed over by one of the warehouses near the harbor. 

It’s one he had climbed to the top of half an hour earlier. 

Desmond prepared for the worst. He knew he can’t possibly fight a robot— so he removed his hidden blade and hid it underneath a dumpster. If the worst comes to pass, that piece of his world won’t ever fall into someone else's hands. 

After a moment of deliberation he hid his burner phone down there too. 

Then he was off to hopefully find his way back to the under construction building he took to sleeping in sometimes. It’s basement would hopefully be good enough for him to hide out in until Stark gave up the chase. For now he was casually walking, not making too much noise. 

Looking through the buildings he saw Stark was heading his direction, so he took off running. 

Rooftops would be useless against a guy who could float in their air— they would make him a bigger target than if he remained on the ground. He had to get into a crowd. 

Desmond managed to cross the street and duck behind a building before Stark came into the alleyway he had been hiding behind. That robot suit must have some kind of tracking capability, and getting into a crowd might not help him get away as much as he had originally hoped. 

Thus began their game of cat and mouse. 

Eventually, Desmond ran out of steam. It was unfair for him to have to compete against a robot, but rarely were things fair in his life. 

Iron Man landed in front of him— palms of his hands glowing bright blue and facing him, and Desmond brought himself to a halt, breathing heavy and overheated out of his mind. 

“So. Let's do this the easy way or the fun way.” Stark said and Desmond put his hands up. He knew when he was in over his head, and he’s not about to try and fight a guy that fought literal aliens from outer space and was covered head to toe in metal with no openings that he knew of. “Damn. Disappointing.”

“You expect me to fight a robot?”

“It’s _armor—_ made from— you know what actually nevermind. Also I expected to take you back unconscious, so try not to fall off.”

What came next was the most awkward human touch he ever experienced if being held in the arms of a robot being piloted by someone who hated you could even be called that.

* * *

Tony Stark brought Desmond to what he assumed was their base. It was by water surrounded by forest, and had a landing pad with a type of plane he’s never seen before. It also had the weirdest architecture for a base he’s ever seen, it’s not symmetrical and almost abstract in construction. Although that might be because his concept of bases were all distinctly from at least a hundred years ago. For all he knew most modern day military bases could look like this. 

The room Desmond was taken into he quickly recognized as an interrogation room, all cement with a table in the middle and an opaque glass view panel on one wall. Stark didn’t however leave him alone in it— he started questioning him himself, right there and then, after lifting the front panel of his armor. 

The smoothness of the mechanism reminded him of seeing the animus for the first time— the unrealness of the technology and almost otherworldly make gave him that same feeling. 

Desmond doesn’t know why he expected anything different than Stark being the interrogator. Oddly Stark appeared to be a hands on type of guy. Originally he had taken him for a stuck up businessman, but clearly he had been very off.

Stark, admittedly started things out hot, and similar enough to the Templars that it made Desmond’s blood boil. 

“Care to give an explanation as to why Friday can’t find any information on you ever existing, not even find a birth certificate?” He said, gesturing wide with his arms. “You know that’s one of the reasons why I ended up so interested in you. People don’t just _not exist_ like you do.”

“Is this a fucking surveillance state?” Desmond immediately shot out. 

“Course not, it's a free country.”

“Then why the fuck is you not knowing who I am something that’s weird. I’m a random bartender who doesn't use social media and snuck across the sea okay. If you want to put me in jail for that or send me back to Italy then fine.” The lie slipped easily and quickly from his mouth. 

There were a few things that all Assassins took harshly to, and invasion of privacy was one of them. 

“Nice try, but I do have access to files across the world. Not just America.”

 _Serious Templar vibes,_ was the only thing Desmond could describe that as, and took to sitting on top of the table in silence. 

“So— what are your powers?” Stark jumped to asking him after he didn’t respond to the admission of how much information he had access to. 

Desmond was reminded of that trio of hackers who said something similar. 

“I don’t have any.” He responded. 

“Yeah, I don’t buy that.”

“... Why?”

 _“Why?_ Are you serious why? You evaded me for weeks on end, almost killed The Black Widow with a weapon I can’t find— and the only trace of you ever even existing are the two fake ID’s you got in New York. Never mind those reflex skills you show off as bar tricks and how you scale buildings like their your personal playground.”

Hearing the woman he stabbed was alive wasn’t much of a relief to him, that meant she’d also very likely be pissed off at him too. People tend not to take attempted murder too lightly. At least Stark didn’t know about his Assassin activities, about the small trail of bodies he left behind.

“I don’t really think that means I have superpowers.” He responded. 

“Alright.” Stark stated. “Let’s test you then.”

“I’m not that about fighting you, remember.”

“It’s a blood test idiot. If you come up negative, I’ll drop you back off in Boston. I might even say sorry.”

There was a chance that he would appear as a regular human. Whatever genetics here constitutes as powers he doubts he had seeing as nothing like them exists where he was from. 

“Sure. I’ll agree to that.” Desmond said, and sealed his fate. 

* * *

“Unable to identify blood sample.”

“Friday. What does that even mean?”

“The sample given does not fit any previously defined parameters.”

“Were all extraterrestrial samples taken into account?” 

“Yes sir.”

Somehow, Desmond Miles had managed to make himself more interesting. 

He could be an alien that they had not had contact with. It was more than likely there were aliens yet to come to Earth out there, somewhere. He could ask Thor about it but he still hadn’t dropped by Earth and Tony doubted he would any time soon. 

“What was his biometrics scan like?”

“Human male, no identifiable illnesses. Three previously fractured bones.”

“Any percent deniability?”

“No noteworthy percent.”

At the very least that was a lead and not just guesses. Even if that led to more questions than answers. 

For example: if he was from a different planet, why did the biometrics identify him as human? Even Asgardians, despite their closeness to human beings came up with vastly different biometrics. 

He also knew this Desmond technically hasn’t violated any of the accords yet— but he didn’t know that. Whatever it was that Miles was— if that even was his name— he could get him to offer the information under an omission of truth. He had a feeling the man might not know even what the Sokovia Accords were at all if he was from a different planet. 

If this Desmond was going to continue to lie to him then Tony wouldn't be so kind, but if he actually gave an answer, maybe he would consider Natasha’s wanting to give him a second chance. 

The first thing Thor and Tony did was also fight after all. And curiosity was getting the better of him. 

* * *

“Desmond Miles, great news.” Stark stated, walking into the room— and Desmond had the feeling that there was in fact, no great news. “Your DNA matches nothing that exists, human, inhuman, animal, alien or Asguardian that has ever stepped foot on this Earth. So, would you like to tell me what planet you’re really from?”

This was not good. It was a worst case sentence he didn’t see coming. 

There really wasn’t an explanation he had off the rope of his head without sounding crazy. 

“Earth.”

It was at this point in time he remembered the Isu had manipulated genetics for a thousand years in order to lead to his birth.

Funny, how one tends to forget these sorts of things when they weren't looking you directly in the face. 

“Come on. I have hard evidence that says otherwise— and by the way the only reason you're not in a supermax prison in the middle of the ocean right now is because I’m kind enough to give you a chance to explain yourself. After the whole aliens attacking New York event, Earth doesn’t take too kindly to unannounced visitors.”

“Why would you want me to explain myself— how would that change anything?”

“You could sign the Sokovia accords.”

He’s seen that word before, but he wasn’t aware of what it was.

“What’s in these accords?”

“Are you serious? Never mind of course you are.” Stark said, then he explained it. “The Sokovia Accords are a list of rules and regulations powered individuals— and aliens— adhere by. Signed by one hundred and seventeen countries after the destruction of Sokovia because of the actions of the enhanced. I’m assuming you fall under the alien category.”

Stark had yet to bring up any of his actions in Boston. He could probably agree to these accords— say he wouldn’t do anything against the law— get the fact that he was from a different place on paper— and move on with his life. And hopefully find a way to dodge whatever monitoring they would likely try. 

His odds weren’t impossible yet. 

“I’m from Earth.” Desmond repeated, and in a word where aliens were a real thing that actually happened, he probably wouldn't seem that crazy, he hoped. “Just… not this Earth.”

Stark took a moment to take that in, slightly shifting his feet. 

“What do you mean?”

“Do you believe it’s possible for other dimensions to exist?”

“I’ve heard of the theory before, yes.” Stark took his explanation in stride.

“That’s where I come from. A different Earth.”

“So no powers?”

“No powers. Superheroes don’t even exist where I’m from.”

“A technological mishap then?”

“Wrong place. Wrong time.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s say I believe you. I still don’t believe you don’t have any type of powers. Maybe those reflexes are normal where you’re from but they aren’t here. And that means you have what qualifies as powers. You also evaded me in my armor for an hour— which, by the way, is not something normal people can do.”

“And?”

“And hey— I wanted to hire you because of your drink making alone— finding out you’re from a different dimension was just the icing on the cake. You don’t have to fight with us or do any missions if for whatever reason you’re under that impression— I’d provide full pay and room here at the Compound and you will, you know tend to the bar, tell us about home and all that. Also Natasha technically doesn’t have powers— neither do I or Rhodey. Being an Avenger is more than just a serum in a bottle.” Stark explained, then he added. “And according to the Sokovia Accords you have to sign their contract or be arrested without trial— there's a whole lot more to it but I’ll spare you the details. I’m trying to help you here. But I can’t help you if you don’t give me anything.”

There really wasn’t any reasonable option besides hearing him out at least. That way he’d probably be given time alone and in that time he could look for a way out. When Abstergo took him he had no memories of the Assassins of the past, maybe he could actually stage a successful breakout if he could break into Abstergo. 

“What’s in the contract?” Desmond asked. 

Stark looked incredibly pleased with himself, he had quickly gone from looking annoyed to happy. 

“I’ll get Vision to explain it to you— Friday tell Vision about this— and he’ll bring you a physical copy of course. You can explain what it is that you can do then.” Then he turned to leave the room, but almost immediately turned back. “Come on get up, we’re friends now right, no lies between us— I won’t fault you for the different dimension thing— you can meet Vision in the conference room, it’s way better than this place.”

Desmond did not think they were friends. Acquaintances was even stretching it. 

He had hoped that he would be left alone, but he couldn't exactly back out now. 

“Sure. Lead the way."

He honestly felt like he was digging his own grave deeper with every sentence that passed. 

* * *

“Vision, this is the one and only Desmond Miles and—“ Stark stopped talking for a moment to take in the occupied room. “—Why are the other two here?”

There were three people in what looked to be a conference room with too much color and personality to be corporate. One of the people was the woman he thought he had killed, and it wasn’t a great sign to see her here. But if they all were truly mad at him Stark probably would have just killed him instead of taking him here. 

There was also a man with red skin. Which was new. 

Again, Desmond had to remind himself aliens were a real thing that existed here. 

With a glance into this eagle vision he noted a stack of papers glowing gold on the desk, and that none of the people were hostile— meaning none of them had an ill intention towards him— which was a surprise. _Including Stark._

At some point in asking questions Stark must have gone from hostile to friendly. 

“My apologies, I was with them when I was called away, and when I explained why they wished to come too.” The red man said— therefore he must be the one called Vision. It certainly wasn't a human name even if it was an English word. 

Besides him there was a man wearing some type of armor on his hips and legs— more skeletal and grey than the bright armor Stark wore. 

“I’m Rhodes.” He said. 

“Natasha.” The woman introduced without holding contempt in her voice. “I don’t believe we ever encountered someone from a separate dimension before.”

The red man did not introduce himself— although he had contextually learned his name. 

“...Hey.” Desmond said. Apparently word around here traveled very fast. None of them were in uniform but he had a decent idea about who they had to be. “You’re… the Avengers right?”

“Missing one member, Black Panther is currently dealing with some political monarchy things in Wakanda.” Stark explained. Although his political knowledge of current times and the current dimension was lacking, he was pretty sure a big thing in America was not having a monarchy. So Desmond made the assumption Wakanda was a different country. “And maybe also two more members— but one of them is off planet and has no idea about the Accords yet— they’re a bit of a new development— and the other might be dead for all we know.”

Desmond really should have done more research on the Avengers. 

Regretting not knowing things seemed to be a common theme in his time here. To be fair to himself however whenever he tried to research something he was distracted by twelve other things. Like when he looked up Stark and found it holograms were a thing humans had invented here— and not a creation by the Isu.

They all seemed a bit unorganized for a team— certainly unorganized by his standards— but contact with another planet probably wasn’t possible yet, so he couldn’t really fault them for that one. The missing in action one was a bit of a concern however. 

“So, you’re looking to sign?” Rhodes asked.

But it wasn't as if Assassins never went missing in action never to return. 

“I’m here to see what it is.” He answered. 

“And he’s here to tell us what he can really do.” Tony stated. 

“I’m just here to see if it’s something I should sign.”

“Here is the full copy of the Sokovia accords.” Vision motioned to the stack of binned papers on the table. 

It was phone book sized. Desmond didn't even consider it. He just needed to buy himself some alone time.

“Yeah, I really don’t think I’m going to read this. At least not in an hour. I'll need to look over it for a day or two.”

And even if he did actually read it there was a big chance he wouldn’t understand it.

The Farm purposefully didn’t teach them the language of politics or laws before they were full fledged Assassins, believing it would influence their morals and missions too much. And Desmond doubted they would be anything like the legalities of what he watched his ancestors get into. 

He’s pretty sure things should have changed a bit since the first presidency. At least he hopes they have. 

“That’s why Vision is here.” Stark stated, and motioned a hand towards him. “Viz, explain the basics.”

Vision began to explain the accords in a clear and concise manner, for being the basics it was quite long, almost like listening to a speech. 

“The abridged version is that any enhanced individual who agrees to sign must register with the United Nations and provide biometric data such as fingerprints and DNA samples, and must reveal their secret identity to the United Nations council if they have one. Those with innate powers must submit to a power analysis, which will categorize their threat level, and they must wear a tracking bracelet at all times. You will be allowed to take place in any vigilante activity within your own state without the approval of a council. But entering other countries for vigilante activities requires explicit permission from said country.”

“Any enhanced individuals who use their powers to break the law, or are otherwise deemed to be a threat to the safety of the general public, may be detained indefinitely without trial. If an enhanced individual violates the Accords— or obstructs the actions of those enforcing the Accords— they may likewise be arrested and detained indefinitely without trial.”

This was a lot of information to be thrown at all at once. Too much of it for Desmond to formulate thoughts about any of it even with Vision's even toned and slow manner of speaking. 

“There are pardons that will be offered to an enhanced individual who has past committed crimes, if they agree to the Accords and prove they are working for the betterment of the world.”

For a moment Desmond sat there in silence, and Vision did not speak again, apparently finishing the explanation. 

There were _so many things_ about that last part in particular, he didn’t even know where his thoughts began. He didn't even intend to know what was in them to begin with, he hadn't expected someone to take the time to explain it to him in the first place. Desmond looked to Stark first.

Stark was looking directly at him, likely trying to gauge his reaction.

Rhodes looked stern and pressed, Desmond would bet he had some type of military training— if not literal military training, than trained to follow orders in a large group. 

Natasha looked unmoved for lack of better words. Completely blank, perhaps even uninterested looking. 

Vision was simply blank. Not unmoved, but completely neutral to a degree that reminded him of the scholars of old. The one’s Altïar knew specifically. 

“Am I allowed to ask questions?” Desmond asked after an awkwardly large amount of time in silence had passed. 

“Of course.” Vision politely replied. 

And Desmond responded with the only reasonable thing he could have asked.

“How badly did you all of you fuck up to warrant this.”

Desmond had expected that to make the tension in the room break, but instead it almost made it worse. 

“You don’t know?” Asked Rhodes, sounding quite disbelieving with a slight turn of his head.

“He doesn’t know about Sovokia or any of our fighting really. Apparently after he jumped dimensions he didn’t bother to turn on the news.” Stark explained.

That certainly made him sound like an idiot. And he technically had done that, but he had not wanted to get involved in anything, and therefore ignored it in order not to stress himself out with things he couldn’t stop— and instead focused on looking up things in the distant past— things he couldn’t change. When he came here he promised himself to keep out of affairs bigger than himself. Then he had left for Boston and all but forgot superheroes existed here. 

Some things he simply couldn’t escape, it seemed. 

“I… know New York was attacked by aliens.” Desmond said and hoped that didn’t offend Vision, even though he didn't appear to type to be offended by much. “But I’m guessing this has to do with something else.”

It wouldn’t make justifiable sense to put these rules on people who saved the world— but rarely in his now four lifetimes of experience, were things done for a solely moral reason by those in power. Desmond could only imagine the absolute mess that would happen if the Assassins didn’t live in secret.

He wanted to try and at least appear kind to the government of these people, however.

But if they were willing to pardon people of past crimes if they worked for what they defined as betterment, they were probably like where he came from. Templars ignored an Assassin’s past actions if they betrayed the brotherhood— no matter how much of it was stained with their own blood— because the members of their order had political power but they could never compete with the Assassin’s training. They ironically needed the Assassins skills for most of their plans. It was almost some kind of parasitic relationship. 

They had to kidnap him and sixteen others for their plans with the Animus. The biggest massacres in Assassin history were all caused by members of the creed who turned into Templars. 

“It has to do with a place called Sovokia.” Stark explained, interrupting his thoughts. “It was a country that was lifted from the Earth itself, and caused thousands of casualties. It also has to do with Lagos and New York _and_ D.C. and all the casualties and destruction caused there, but Sovokia is the main point.”

“How did that happen?” Desmond asked, confused. The thoughts he had earlier about people in power were shot away from his mind at Stark’s statement. “Why was that a necessary thing for you to do?”

Stark looked confused by his response. 

“What do you mean by that?” Vision questioned. “What was a necessary thing for us to do?” 

“Destroy Sovokia.”

Rhodes looked puzzled by that statement, as did Natasha to a lesser degree. Vision didn’t give a visible reaction. 

All of them ended up looking to Stark however, who quickly recovered from his own confusion. 

“We didn’t exactly destroy it like supervillains.” He firmly answered. _“We_ didn’t destroy the country— but another Avenger and I built an A.I. together who could one day replace us if ever needed, and it got out of hand, tried to take over the world, then tried to destroy the world by using Sovokia as his own personal meteor. It was the Avenger's fault basically. We needed oversight for our actions seeing that _and_ all the destruction we caused elsewhere— the Accords provide that for us. As it turns out other countries don't really like a group of foreigners ignoring their borders and causing a ton of destruction on their land.” 

And at Stark’s explanation Desmond was struck by a very _Haythem_ feeling of people wanting to be controlled, and his thoughts suddenly steamrolled out of his command. It was as if a Templar floodgate had just been opened in his brain. People didn't want to bear the weight of their own hands and actions, they wanted to be controlled, told what to do, in order to let their minds rest on the consequences of what they’ve done, thinking the responsibility of their action lay on someone else’s hands if they’re only doing what they're told. 

That was something he hadn’t ever really experienced the bleeding effect from before. Haythem was always lost in the sea of the much longer Assassin memories in his head. The few months he lived as the Templar were drowned out by the literal lifetimes of everyone else. 

And quickly as soon as they came he shook those thoughts off, and began to look at Stark’s words in a different light. 

It didn’t really sound like an _Avengers_ problem to him. 

By Assassin's ideology, Stark and the other Avenger should have been killed by their teammates for their mistake— for compromising their core tenants— their job to help people being hurt would be one of their tenants, Desmond translated into Assassin’s terms. He could see why the government would want to monitor Stark in order to prevent another disaster, and how that was not just a power play on their part. And honestly that last part surprised him.

What he didn’t get was why Stark and that other Avenger were allowed to live at all, they should be imprisoned or something at least, and why all these countries took it as an opportunity to monitor _everyone._ He understood why— but it wasn’t correctly justified. The right course of action wasn't taken, justice wasn’t even truly enacted. Therefore _why?_

The Accords weren’t just about this team it was about every person with what they define as superpowers— as enhanced or whatever they were calling it. 

There was a reason the Assassins were committed to staying in the shadows at all costs, even that of their own lives. 

It had been a long explanation from Vision, but those were _a lot_ of papers. Like drastically more than his explanation could reasonably give a lot of papers. He was pretty sure there were so many things about it left unsaid. 

Based on his personality it didn’t appear Stark learned much of anything from destroying Sovokia and complying with the Accords because of it. 

Altaïr had learned to dispel his arrogance after he broke the main tenet of the creed— he should have been killed for it— but he was given a second chance because of his raw talent and of Al Mualim’s personal greed, and he proved himself worthy of that second chance and so much more. Maybe Stark should also be given a second chance, but Altaïr’s mistakes killed less than five innocents and it was considered an offense punishable by death by his own mentor’s blade. 

Desmond wouldn’t fall to being tracked like a dog by the government and assessed like a fighting chicken because Stark made a mistake and Desmond had been unlucky enough to fall in his path.

_Everything is permitted._

You live with the consequences of your actions, good and bad. Ultimately the only thing preventing you from doing something is yourself.

A part of him he didn't even know existed until today, Haythem, sneered at that last thought. 

It was then that Desmond realized he _had_ been listening to Haythem this whole time. In how he ignored the larger goings on around him— _he didn't want to have to bear the weight of that responsibility anymore,_ of the things he could stop if only he knew about them, but he didn't.

“I hope your long period of silence means your thinking about it.” Stark said with a raised eyebrow. 

“I think I understand now.” He stated. 

Desmond would live with what he did in this world, he didn’t need any pardon because he failed to kill someone— because he hadn’t bothered to do necessary research on the current time. That was his mistake, and he would live with it. 

For someone who experienced so many lifetimes he wasn’t that good of an Assassin in reality. At least Shawn and Rebecca weren’t here to see how much of a disappointment he was turning out to be. 

However, before he could answer the team began talking amongst themselves— half arguing really, and Desmond was not inclined to stop them. 

“Okay, great— so basically here’s the even shorter version, sign and stay with us, or risk going to prison.”

 _“Tony.”_ Rhodes warned. 

“What? It’s true. That’s basically what happened with Natasha.”

“I believe this has gone on long enough.” Vision stated. “Perhaps we should avoid a heated argument about the Accords once more. Mr. Miles, because you do not partake in any vigilante activity you do not need to sign the accords to avoid imprisonment. The injury you inflicted on Black Widow is forgiven because she attacked first, and does not wish any ill will against you.”

Tony Stark, was officially the worst person Desmond had met in this world— and he decided the alien guy was cool. 

That certainly explained why he had been trying so hard to recruit him and hadn’t backed down when he said he would willingly go to prison.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you Vision.”

Maybe he would be walking out of here today without agreeing to something he didn't know much of. From Ezio he knew those types of things were tricky and took a lot of understanding and care, from Connor he knew if whoever wrote them could turn on their word, they truly didn't matter at all.

“Yeah. _Thank you Vision.”_ Stark sarcastically repeated. “You do realize he’s definitely hiding some kind of superpower from us right?”

“I’ve taken that into consideration. From my calculations it is likely he has some type of detection sense— or enhanced hearing. Along with some fighting skill I do not have enough information to determine the level of, and of course heavy experience with urban climbing. Perhaps to the degree of Daredevil. There are many questions I have for him, but I do not believe that course of action will grant their answer.”

Desmond tried not to let that assessment freak him out. 

“Then what’s your suggestion?”

“Much like the question of Thor’s affiliation to an Earth country, it would be best if Mr. Miles was kept here.” _And he was back to square one._ Desmond should have known they would get what they wanted. He hoped his hacker friends wouldn’t worry too much about his sudden disappearance. “My apologies— but it does appear that you are severely lacking in information about the basic on-goings of this planet, and have been forced to illegally obtain an identification in order to live normally.”

“I’ve managed so far.” 

Until Stark came along that is. 

When Desmond was taken by Abstergo he didn’t fight back, he knew it was useless being trapped in a building with hundreds of employees and guards not afraid to shoot. Desmond would just have to get _creative_ about figuring a way out once the people who worked here were informed.

“Should I inform Secretary Ross about this?” Rhodes asked— and Desmond hated how _important_ that sounded. 

This was exactly what he wanted to avoid, the eyes of important people. He had enough of that in Ezio and Connor’s lifetime. 

“I don’t think he needs to know yet. Besides he’s not a part of the team, not a vigilante either, doesn’t really fall under his jurisdiction.”

“So I’m staying here?” Desmond asked. 

“Seems like it— Widow can show you around.”

* * *

The layout of the buildings that made up the Avengers compound was split into three sections: the hanger, the research labs and then there was what Desmond called the Avenger’s area. 

The hanger was a massive and long building that housed all their vehicles— and Stark’s creations. By far it was the largest of the three areas.

The research labs are where civilian personnel worked. They were closest to the water and looked older than the other two buildings with the deep red brick siding and dark rooftops. 

The Avenger’s area is where most of them lived— Widow told him Panther had obligations in his country which meant he only joined for larger missions— something similar might happen with a man named Thor one day, (Yes, relation to the Nordic god, and that was something Desmond hadn’t really come to terms with yet). It’s also where Stark located his personal laboratory and armor. The conference room Desmond had met the whole team in and training areas were also in that building. And it was the building Desmond would live in, meaning he likely wouldn't have to worry about _too_ many innocent researchers wandering around.

While touring around, Black Widow struck up a conversation— the thing Desmond dreaded most about this whole thing. 

“So, superheroes don’t exist where you’re from?” She asked.

Desmond tried not to feel weird talking to a woman a few hours ago he had been pretty sure he killed. At the very least the conversation she started wasn’t about their fight, but he would have much rather walked in an awkward or tense silence.

“Only in comic books.”

“What happens when there’s a catastrophic disaster?”

Him being here happened, for one. 

“They don’t really happen. Or at least not like anything here. There were no alien attacks or robots lifting land from the Earth, but there are hurricanes and tornadoes.”

“What about Hydra? Who stopped them.”

Desmond furrowed his brows.

“I don’t know who Hydra is.”

“It was a secret organization made in World War II that wanted to take over the world. Although some people believed it existed since ancient times.”

That had an uncanny resemblance to the Templar Order. The _who stopped them_ implied that they didn’t exist here anymore at the very least. Hopefully. Desmond really didn’t want to deal with another Templar Order, he knew how tricky they could be to truly topple over and snuff out for good. 

“We didn’t have that either.”

“Must be nice. A world of peace then.”

Despite not being subjected to the repeated almost mass destruction this world was, it had been anything but peaceful. For a thousand years the Assassins and Templars fought taking and giving ground to one another. When Desmond experienced his ancestors he saw nothing but fighting and war and betrayal and bloodshed, neither side truly gaining an upper hand for a long period of time. 

He remembered Ezio once said:

_“I am weary of this fight. Not because I am tired, but because our struggle seems to move in one direction only.”_

_“Towards chaos.”_

Five hundred years later they would be fighting the same battle, the same cause, in an endless war. 

“It was.” Desmond lied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do all marvel related fanfics get this kind of attention or did I just hit the proverbial jackpot or something…


End file.
